


Change Machine

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Owada Mondo, Daddy Issues, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Police Brutality, Sex Work, Sexual Content, not as dark as the tags may suggest, takaaki is a DILF stop being cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: Mondo has been a rentboy long enough to know that cops are nasty customers. He doesn’t fuck with cops — ever — but apparently, there’s this cop that wants to fuck with him.
Relationships: Ishimaru Kiyotaka & Ishimaru Takaaki, Oowada Mondo/Ishimaru Takaaki
Comments: 27
Kudos: 65





	Change Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Not me, writing a 6k word fic for a ship that doesn't even exist. Nooo. I feel like I can only write Ishimondo if I wanna get feedback on my works, so if I can write this and get some positive reception, then I can pretty much write anything?
> 
> I wanted a sex worker Mondo story (terms like "prostitute" and "hooker" are used sparingly) so I Alexander Hamilton-ed this shit in three days. I'm a slow writer, so that's really good for me. Also, ¥200,000 is about 1,900 USD or 1,600 EUR.

* * *

By now, he has tried every flavor of condom, from artificial blueberry to factory manufactured bacon, which — in his personal opinion — is minutely hilarious, but completely overrated. The thing about being a rentboy — **boy** being the keyword here — is that most of his clientele are men on the down-low. Usually older men with wives and kids and the whole bit. Some hide their wedding bands, but the tells are obvious; an indent around the finger; a tan line. Most of these guys just want a quick thing. If he had to put a number to it, about 80% of the work he does is oral. He digs inside his bag, for the strings and strings of condoms, and makes a selection. It’s become a game. By profession, he chooses a flavor for the man he’s about to service… Politician? Spearmint. Yakuza? Black-cherry. Educator? Vanilla. 

Eventually, everything he eats tastes like a cock. The moment something hits his tongue, that is what is doomed to become. Candy? Cock. Soda? Cock. Yogurt? Cock.

Cops don’t have a flavor.

Mondo has been a rentboy long enough to know that cops are nasty customers. He doesn’t fuck with cops — ever — but apparently, there’s this cop that wants to fuck with him. They have been watching each other for weeks. Mondo, in his torn jeans and fur trimmed jacket, battling the chilly autumn nights, glaring at those black tinted windows. Whenever he finds a new street, someplace more discreet than the last, that patrol car follows. This has to be some form of harassment. Here Mondo is, just trying to get by, and this bastard is hounding him.

Business is hard enough. There are younger boys out there, softer and more desirable and at 21 years olds, Mondo may as well be a hag. He started when he was 16 and God, back then, if he wasn’t a forbidden taste of fruit. There were plenty of perverts, being in Kabukicho, too, with all the foreigners and sex tourists. It didn’t matter that his English was choppy, because that made him more _exotic_ , right? He could charge a small fortune for his body. He could, so he did. 

He wants someone to pick him up. He wants it more than anything, just five minutes in a warm car so he can defrost his toes. He flicks his lighter, holds the flame just beneath his fingers and savors the warmth. There is a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth and unfortunately, it is his last. His pack is all empty like his stomach is all empty. There is a food truck just across the street and as amazing as it smells, Mondo has no appetite. He smokes the cigarette down to the filter then crushes it beneath his heel quite needlessly. That’s when he notices the door of the patrol car swing open.

Walking away might be a good idea. Instead, Mondo shrugs his hands inside his pockets and waits. Whatever he was expecting him to look like, the big-mean-scary cop, well, it wasn’t this. The man is well into his forties, perhaps closer to fifty. His hair is grey, but his hairline is strong. His jaw is sharp, but his cheeks are hollowed. The harsh stubble really brings together the silver fox look, although Mondo doubts this man put effort to it. He carries himself as though he is unaware of himself. As though he is unaware of the weight around his hip, the baton and the gun and that sense of superiority cops tend to hold. He approaches Mondo in a haze.

The interaction is brief. The man joins Mondo, rests his back against the same building with an unheard sigh. The noise pollution in this part of the city is ridiculous; the shouting of drunks and the clicking of heels and the door-spill of nightclub music. Mondo taps his foot anxiously. Before he can start sweating, the man hands him something with a discreet flick of the wrist. Instinctually, Mondo takes it. Stupid. Why the hell would he do that? If he looks down to find a dime bag, to find that this cop got fed up and decided to plant him, he’ll scream. Mondo smooths his thumb over the material. Paper. The kind you tear from a notepad. 

“I’d like to see you tonight,” says the man. 

Mondo unfolds it to find an address, scribbled out in blue pen. Sloppy, but legible. When he looks up, the man is gone. His eyes flick all around, down the street, across the street, finding not a flash of that blue uniform among the crowds of pedestrians. The patrol car, too, is nowhere in sight.

This has to be a set-up. 

He tries to forget it. The night is merciless, though. This spot is too oversaturated for flagging down buyers and it’s all thanks to that shitty cop, practically driving him out of town. He crushes his toes with the heel of his boot, in some sad attempt of warming them. He checks the address again.

Fuck it. 

He asks a stranger for directions then jumps on the subway. As convenient as Tokyo is, public transportation only gets him so far. The remainder he walks. He finds himself in a modest neighborhood, lined with duplexes and townhomes. He stares at the house number, triple checks it, then knocks.

“Hi,” greets the cop, no longer in uniform. 

Mondo cautiously steps inside. He notices a pair of guest slippers, but doesn’t remove his shoes to wear them. The man seems nervous. He shuffles into the kitchen and grabs a large bottle of wine from the fridge. Mondo watches as he uncorks it with a _pop_. The liquid swirls into matching glasses and with an outstretched arm, he offers Mondo a drink. 

“Please,” he urges. 

He was wearing sunglasses earlier, but now, Mondo can see everything. The deep circles around his eyes, possibly a sign of stress or insomnia or worse. He looks sickly. Not in a _what’s-wrong_ way, but in a _what-happened_ way. Something about him is familiar, too. The familiar-ish man acknowledges Mondo's hesitation and lowers the glass, opting to set it down on the coffee table, instead. 

Mondo cuts to the chase. “Why’d ya wanna see me?” 

Mondo is looking at him, but receives nothing in return. For a cop, he is surprisingly meek. He fidgets with his hands. Huh. No wedding ring, either. 

“Sorry,” the man stifles an anxious laugh. “I’ve never done this before.”

“We ain’t doin’ anything,” Mondo frowns. “Tell me what the fuck you want.”

He either wants to fuck or arrest him. Maybe both. Mondo glances at the coffee table and imagines it happening, how the wine would spill onto the carpet and look almost like blood. This is stupid. 

“Y’know, I dropped outta high school, so I guess I ain’t that fuckin’ smart, but this has gotta be entrapment.” Yeah, he is so fucking out of here. Beneath his breath, he grumbles, “Fuckin' cops.”

“Wait,” the man panics. “I—I’m sorry. How much for the night?”

“I ain’t a hooker!” Mondo growls. He is, they both know he is, but he won’t admit that right now. 

“I don’t want to have sex."

He came all his way on a whim. He figures, even if this is a trap, his feet will be warm tonight. Whether it be right here in this house or in a jail cell. Both have central heating, right?

“Two-hundred thousand if ya want me ‘til morning,” Mondo decides. “Lemme see it, then we’ll talk.”

The man grabs something from the coffee table; an envelope fat with cash. He rummages through his wallet and adds a few extra bills, then folds the top, rather than sealing it. Unlike the wine glass, Mondo snatches the money the moment it’s offered. He counts it twice, then shoves it into his jacket pocket. 

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier,” the man smiles wryly. 

Mondo ignores his apology. “Your home is nice.”

It is. The kitchen and living room are bathed in a warm, orange hue. Low lighting can suggest a couple things; sometimes seduction or relaxation, but this just feels homey. The furniture has this vintage look; not ugly, but those patterns definitely fell out of style twenty years ago. The coffee table, too. Old, but not hideous. In the living room is this tall display, overflowing with family photos, decorations and knick-knacks. There seems to be a story in every corner, dozens of items placed with care, either mounted to the wall or placed on a shelf. Everything has a spot and it makes perfect sense, this endearingly, artful arrangement. This isn’t a house, which is why Mondo said _home. Your_ **_home_ ** _is nice._

“Thank you,” the man replies, hastily. “Will you sit with me?”

Mondo takes his time shrugging off his jacket. He makes a small show of it, a flash of bedroom eyes before hanging it on the coat rack. The man swallows; the bob of Adam’s apple is a dead give away. No reason to tease him, he doesn’t want sex, right? Mondo joins him on the couch.

The man asks, “What’s your name?”

“Whatever you want it to be,” Mondo reclines, more focused on the cushion than the question. This is typical. Some clients want to know the basics and some want absolutely everything. Details, factoids, and an entire encyclopedia. Those clients don’t get to come back for seconds. 

“How old are you?” Another basic. 

“Eighteen,” he lies. The man slides away the wine glass, coaster and all. Mondo just has to laugh. “Kidding! How old I look to you?”

He decides rather quickly, then returns the drink. “Early twenties.”

“You got it,” Mondo clicks his tongue. 

“You’re so young,” he sighs. “Why are you doing this?”

Another client type is the White Knight. The guy with the hero complex, that is so devastatingly in love with a broken soul. Quite the assumption, that every sex worker is broken or looking to be rescued. Mondo is a bit of a hypocrite to deny it, but God, please, he does not want to feed the stereotypes. The only sex he engages in is for survival, though. Despite that, he is not begging to be saved. Neither is he begging to be pitied, or even loved. 

“What, you gonna lecture me?” Mondo snorts.

Another sigh. “No.”

“My brother was in a gang and got into it with a cop,” Mondo explains. “Shot ‘im right in the gut. He bled out and died on the street. He was my only family, so I had to fend for myself after that. Quit high school and found there was a quick way to make money.”

With his head bowed, the man says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Are you?” Mondo can’t see his face. 

“My son, he—” He stops to exhale. “He was picked on in school. I tried to be there for him, but my wife had filed for a divorce, so I was working doubles to support us. I came home one night and— I found him—”

He looks up with glassy eyes. 

“I miss him everyday,” he says in conclusion. “He would be about your age now.”

They sit in silence. Silence doesn't make Mondo uncomfortable anymore. It did when he was younger, when he thought he had to fill the air with nonsense. He assumed he was doing everyone a favor, when really, he could have taken a lesson in shutting the hell up. His client seems unbothered. He seems to have eased up a bit, too, finally relaxing into the couch. Usually, this would be part where they start kissing. It comes naturally after all the small talk, except Mondo did some trauma dumping and that has never been a habit of his. Whatever. The man gets closer, close enough for their knees to knock. He takes his hand and in response, Mondo makes a noise, somewhere deep in his throat. 

"Is this okay?" 

Mondo nods.

He sips his wine and watches as the man traces patterns into his hand. His touch is gentle and it almost tickles, too. He glides his fingertips from the creases on his palms, to the veins in his wrist. Up and down. Back and forth. Mondo curls his toes with anticipation, but the ministrations never escalate, the fingers never move beyond that dip in his elbow. It feels good. The innocence of a feather-like touch. The simplicity in sensation. Mondo feels himself getting hard and inhales his drink, hoping the alcohol may kill his boner. 

“What do I call ya?” Mondo asks, glass now empty. “You should prolly make somethin’ up.” 

“Takaaki."

“Sounds like yer real name,” Mondo tsks.

Takaaki isn't worried. “I have nothing to hide."

“Diamond,” Mondo clears his throat. His street name, obviously. His parents didn’t hate him that much. That usually earns him a double take, a feminine name like that, but Takaaki simply nods. He stands, then pours more wine for the both of them. 

“You’re a handsome young man." He offers a fresh glass. 

“Oh, yeah?” Mondo snorts, then takes the drink. “Mister _I-don’t-wanna-have-sex_.”

“You said you weren’t that smart,” Takaaki recalls as he returns to the couch, “but you certainly have a smart mouth.”

Mondo cracks a smile.

“See? Now yer flirtin’ with me."

Takaaki takes a generous sip of wine before resuming his earlier activity. Skin over skin; stroking. This time, Mondo shivers plainly. His alcohol tolerance is fairly low, one glass is enough to really feel it, and fuck does it feel good. His body is buzzing. 

“I’ve never been with a man,” Takaaki admits. To erase any doubt, he adds, “Sexually.”

“Lotta my johns are straight.” _Straight._ Quote, unquote. “Older, too.”

“Age changes a person,” Takaaki muses. “Marriage, children,” he names like a checklist. “Death.”

“So,” Mondo lolls his head toward Takaaki. “Yer wife and son bailed and now ya might be gay?”

Not the best way to phrase it. _In the wake of devastation, are you now exploring new avenues?_ His mouth usually gets him in trouble and this is why. Thankfully, Takaaki has a sense of humor.

“You really say anything you want, don’t you?” Takaaki chuckles. Then he shakes his head. He answers, “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’m having a mid-life crisis.”

“Well, I ain’t a therapist.” It’s Mondo’s turn to laugh. “Sure ya don’t wanna fuck?”

He regrets suggesting it the moment it leaves his mouth. Whether it is a joke or not remains a mystery to the both of them. Takaaki smiles, dismissively. He flicks on the television and it’s more background noise than anything. Mondo watches the pixels, the millions of them, dance and float and flicker across the screen. Nothing else really exists anymore, except the hum of his brain and Takaaki, dragging his fingers along his forearm. He falls asleep just like that.

In the morning, he wakes up with his face against a firm chest. He peers up to a sleeping Takaaki, sleeping so hard that he looks nearly dead. Mondo tries moving without waking him, but Takaaki has him wrapped up and the dead weight of his arms pose quite the challenge. He accepts the situation with a sleepy groan. Except, damn, he really has to piss.

"Hey," Mondo croaks. No answer. Impatient, he nuzzles closer to Takaaki and nips the lobe of his ear. The poor man, he jolts awake and begins apologizing profusely. For what, cuddling? Oh, please. Mondo just wants to know where the bathroom is.

He jacks off while he's in there, only because he's confident he can finish in less than two minutes. He chews his lip to stay quiet and exhales hard through his nose. There isn't much of an afterglow, he recovers quickly then flushes the toilet. The mirror door is open just a crack, and rather than ignore it, he slides it open. Inside, he finds three orange pill bottles, then squints to read a label... _Setraline._

On his way out, he notices another door. This is a two bedroom house. Before he can snoop any further, Takaaki waves him over to the kitchen. 

Takaaki makes breakfast for the both of them. God, it's like they fucked. Mondo doesn't know what to make of this man. He hates cops, he really does, and that should go without saying. Setting that aside, all Mondo sees is a lonely person. Not an astounding feature; most people are lonely, but Takaaki is empty, too. His eyes are grey and faded and the way he stands in the kitchen is the same way a ghost would. He hands a plate to Mondo and they eat without exchanging a word.

By the door, he helps Mondo into his jacket. Doesn't he know chivalry is dead? 

“Can I kiss you?” Takaaki asks. _Swoon._

Mondo gives it his all. He moans into it, circles his tongue in slow, long motions. It earns him a groan and then a hand, hovering to his hip. Before Takaaki can actually touch him, Mondo pulls away. Yeah, he meant to tease him just now. He wants Takaaki to miss him — hopefully enough to hire him again. After five years of bullshit and debauchery, Mondo has finally gotten something of a break. No such thing as easy money, but damn, if last night wasn’t easy.

“Call me,” Takaaki suggests. He sounds hopeful. 

Mondo takes his phone number and commits it to memory. When he’s far enough down the road, he pulls out the envelope of cash and counts it again. He feels like he got away with something. Hell, he's gonna sleep in a hotel and order room service. Really, he should stretch it out; eat convenience store food, crash in the park, and pray he won’t be robbed. Life is short, though. He craves the illusion of normalcy. No matter how brief or how fake. 

He books a room in downtown Tokyo and receives a few suspicious looks. The thing about fucking strangers and strange men, is that everyone seems to know it. No doubt there is some video online, maybe dozens, of a john recording him in secret. He's seen plenty of videos like that; he's felt guilty for watching. The john with his blurred out face — to protect his precious privacy, of course — then the worker, with not a detail spared. It pisses him off. The woman at the front desk hands him a keycard.

He eats, he masturbates, he showers, with only the television to keep him company. There is a channel playing reruns of a police procedural; he almost loses count on how many episodes involve dead prostitutes. All female, obviously. He rarely finds himself represented in old school media and even when he does, it isn't any good. He slurps down noodles and forgets to be offended as prostitute #9 is stabbed to death. 

Before it gets too dark, he decides to go for a walk. He shrugs on his jacket and stops at a vending machine, although none of the flavors appeal to him. Grape, Orange, Lemon; _Doctor, Technician, Lawyer._ He buys water.

Back at the hotel, he flops on the bed and flicks off the television. He stares at the landline before finally just grabbing it and dialing the number. It’s only been ten hours and Mondo already wants to see him again. He might be pushing his luck, or maybe not, because the phone rings only twice. 

"Hey." He decides to be cute. "Whatcha wearin’?"

There is a pause. Takaaki laughs, then says, “Work clothes.”

“Gross,” Mondo sticks out his tongue. “Can I see you after?”

They meet up for coffee. It is 8:00PM and coffee should not be necessary, but Takaaki looks ready to pass out and Mondo will take anything that someone else is paying for.

“Thanks, Dad,” Mondo bends to kiss him just below the ear. Takaaki goes red. The cashier looks stunned. 

“Don’t do that,” Takaaki scolds as they exit the cafe. Oh, serious voice. Mondo likes it, but then, quite gently, Takaaki tacks on a, _“Please.”_

“You gonna punish me?” Mondo slides his hand into Takaaki’s back pocket. He’s gotten in some serious trouble for this type of behavior. Not the fun, sexy kind, either. Some johns really don’t appreciate PDA, namely that of the gay variety. Thankfully, Takaaki isn’t a goddamn asshole. He simply removes Mondo’s hand and the two don’t share another word until they get through the front door. 

Takaaki pays for an hour. He even sets a timer on his phone. Mondo gets comfortable on the couch, sinking into the same spot he did last night, then flings off his socks. With a frown, Takaaki picks them off the floor. 

“You’re kind of a brat,” Takaaki announces, as if he has just noticed. Once he settles on the couch, Mondo plops a foot on his lap and wiggles his toes. 

Takaaki starts rubbing his feet. Mondo grins and he just can’t help it. He feels so spoiled. They burn a good ten minutes like that, with Takaaki massaging him in circles. They could probably spend the full hour in silence and usually Mondo would prefer that, take his money and run, but Takaaki is nice to talk to. 

“What kinda dad were you?” Mondo asks.

“Stern,” Takaaki decides after some thought. Then, “I wasn’t that tough, but I had rules.” 

“You ever hit your kid?” Is that question too blunt? Whatever. He gets away with it. 

“Spanking. When he was young,” Takaaki admits. “I never considered that to be hitting, but I can’t say I feel that way anymore. I regret it now.”

“Everyone gets spanked. My dad spanked the shit outta me and look. I came out perfect, right?” Mondo grins. Takaaki just smiles and shakes his head, unsure how else to answer. “What would ya do if yer son was a rentboy?”

“This seems like a loaded question,” Takaaki squints his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade. “My hair would probably fall out.”

“You have nice hair,” Mondo sighs, wistfully. 

“Thank you.”

“Yer really sexy,” he purrs.

If he could stop flirting with the old man, that would be great. Instead, he pulls him in for a kiss and they take turns climbing into each other's laps. Takaaki, all that stubble he has, the scratching and the chaffing, it should be a nightmare. Mondo loves it, though. His skin is so raw and all they’ve done is make out. From somewhere in the living room, wherever Takaaki has abandoned his phone, is an incessant buzzing. The worst fucking sound. Mondo knows what it means, that their 60 minutes is up and for a moment, Mondo forgets he’s the one being paid. 

Takaaki doesn’t ask for another hour. Mondo feels disappointed. Not because he could have made more money, but because, well… 

When he gets back to his hotel, he tears off his clothes and climbs into bed. He should be sick of masturbating, he monetizes his body and now masturbation should feel like a chore. After he sees a client, he won’t touch himself for days. Sometimes, he just feels so sick to his stomach and he hates his dick and wants to chop it off. Instead, he takes it into his hand and then spits into the other. His stomach glistens with precum, drop after drop, as he fucks himself slow and tries not to question it. 

This becomes the routine. 

***

They do have sex, eventually. Mondo figures he should top, because Takaaki has never been with a man, right? He should take the lead. He shuffles through his bag for a condom, past all the flavors and colorful packaging and finds something more basic. _Lubricated._ Okay. His hand is shaking, which is bad, but what’s worse, is that Takaaki notices.

“We don’t have to,” Takaaki reminds him. He keeps saying that, as if he hasn’t been paying Mondo on a weekly, sometimes daily basis for sex, only to kiss him on the couch instead. Sometimes to just hold hands or rub his feet. That’s why Mondo is so nervous. This means something. This has to mean something, right?

When has sex ever meant anything?

They get on the bed and Takaaki climbs on top. Mondo moves fast without meaning to, or maybe he does mean to, maybe he just wants to get it over with, so he can stop feeling like this. Takaaki calms him with a kiss. Then another. Warm and slow and wet. Each kiss lasts a lifetime. Well into an hour and Mondo is the only one undressed. He is amazed that sex is able to last this long without losing steam. Except, they’re not even having sex yet. This is all foreplay. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Takaaki is saying, kissing the inside of his thigh. 

Mondo is biting his lip, but he is babbling, anyway. He whimpers as Takaaki presses a finger inside of him. His dick may as well have a heartbeat. Throb, throb, throbbing the longer it goes untouched, heavy and fat against his stomach. Takaaki finds his prostate with ease and maybe that shouldn’t surprise Mondo, but it does. Maybe Takaaki and his ex-wife had a less-than-vanilla sex life. Maybe Takaaki is more kinky than Mondo pegged him _(haha)_ out to be. He grips the sheets tighter.

“Fuck! _Oh, fuck_.” His voice is thick. He can’t believe how close he is; only a minute of fingering and this is what he is reduced to. It was all that simulation from earlier, frying his goddamn nerves. He can rarely come without a hand on his dick, but sure enough he sees stars. He barely warns Takaaki on time and manages to startle the both of them as he shoots onto his chest. He gets a taste of himself before Takaaki can clean the rest with a handcloth. 

He leans forward to help Takaaki with his shirt. Before he undoes the last of the buttons, he notices a scar, then a burn, then a faded tattoo. That last one surprises him. Mondo comments on it and Takaaki laughs in that way he does, when he doesn’t know what to say. He has a good looking body, especially good considering his age. Mondo kisses his chest and sucks a bruise along his collarbone. Takaaki makes a halfhearted complaint, so Mondo pins him down and bestows him another. 

“Such a brat,” Takaaki remarks playfully. 

He grabs the condom from earlier. Then a small bottle of lube. They don’t really discuss it, Takaaki rolls on the rubber and the rest happens naturally. Sex is sex. Mondo supposes Takaaki doesn’t need instructions when it comes to fucking a man. 

The first thrust isn’t torture, but it does make Mondo grit his teeth. He pulls his knees closer to his chest and tries to breathe. He doesn’t bottom as much as someone might assume. Oral goes a long way. It’s cheaper; quicker; cleaner. Takaaki allows Mondo to adjust before thrusting again. This time, Mondo melts. His chest feels tight and he makes some noise, like that might get it out of him. Takaaki kisses him on the mouth and it only gets tighter.

This means something. _This has to mean something, right?_

Takaaki fucks him like they’re married. He fucks him like they’ve known each other for twenty years, like there is a familiarity to this, as though Takaaki already knows what Mondo likes and how he likes it; how fast, how slow. This feels domestic. He feels embarrassed, too, because Takaaki is really watching his face and that’s how he knows, what’s good and what’s not. He pulls out and Mondo whines at the sudden loss, as he clenches around nothing. He does it to check the condom and Mondo should feel like shit, right? He should feel dirty and this should remind him of what a whore he is. He feels no such thing. 

_Take it off._ He almost says that. 

They change positions. Mondo gets on his stomach and feels his face flush. He has done worse things with strangers, but Takaaki is not a stranger anymore so Mondo swallows the shame and gets his ass in the air. He feels a smack and gasps into the pillow. Before he can accuse Takaaki of being a filthy, old man, he loses his voice on a moan. 

Takaaki moans, too. He says, “Let me hear you.”

Mondo whines into the pillow. He pushes his hips back to meet Takaaki, rocks himself back and forth and tries meeting him every time. He doesn’t jackhammer into him mindlessly; instead, he sets a pace and keeps it. Mondo savors every thrust, but eventually, the sensations all blend into a blissful blur. He dick is oozing, he knows, because he can feel it with every smack against his stomach. He’s close.

“That’s so good, _that’s so fuckin’ good_ , oh, my— _Fuck!_ Oh, my God. _Oh, my God—_ ” The words catch in his throat. His chin is wet and there is no helping it now, the stream of drool. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, I love your cock, _I love yer fuckin’ cock—”_

“Baby,” Takaaki shushes. _Baby._ Mondo chokes. “Hm? You’re my baby, aren’t you?”

 _Yes. God, yes._ He tries saying that, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s noise, yes, but it is nothing else. He’s been fucked by a lot of men, but a man has never fucked him stupid. _This_ is stupid. And now he’s crying.

Falling for a middle aged man. A cop. 

His brother would beat him over the head. 

“Stop,” Mondo gasps. Takaaki stops immediately. Before he can question it, Mondo is wiping the tears from his face and he says, “Fuck my mouth.”

Takaaki asks if he’s okay. He must ask a dozen times. Mondo rolls off the condom and kisses the head of Takaaki’s cock. His bare skin, no rubber between them. 

“Please,” Mondo begs. “I just want you inside me.”

Mondo tastes him. He tastes like skin and sweat and when he orgasms, Mondo swallows his cum. He has never let a man finish inside his mouth. 

Exhausted. They are both exhausted. When Takaaki can muster the energy, he pulls Mondo to his chest and they rest like that, almost just like that first night on the couch. Mondo is ready for bed, but he is dragged to the shower and complains with every step. He becomes less argumentative as the water hits his skin, cascading him in warmth. Takaaki washes his back and Mondo has to grip the wall to keep his feet steady. Not because Takaaki is being rough, but because he is being so goddamn gentle. It’s almost like being rocked to sleep.

"Will ya let me pop yer cherry next time?" Mondo mumbles. His eyelids are heavy. 

"Of course,” Takaaki chuckles. He kisses Mondo on the shoulder once the soap runs off his skin. 

Mondo wakes first. Takaaki looks dead in his sleep. He always does, the way he lies on his back and folds his hands together, like a corpse for viewing. Mondo kisses his forehead and stumbles off to the bathroom. He pisses and that should be it, he should head back to bed, or maybe the kitchen, or maybe just watch something in the living room. That second bedroom door bothers him. He just wants to know. Just a peek... Quietly, he turns the handle. 

The bed is made, he notices that first. A white fitted sheet and matching duvet. There is only one pillow on the bed and beside it, a blanket that might belong to a child, colorful and carefully folded. In the corner is a writing desk, decorated only by an unlit candle and small stack of papers. When he pops off the lid, he smells strawberries, or _strawberry creme_ , according to the label. There is a television that looks like it came straight out of the 90’s, the boxe-y kind with the VHS player. Mondo used to have a T.V. like that. He notices a pile of home videos, stacked high and the top reads: _Kiyotaka’s 1st Birthday (1994)!_

Wait.

He plugs in the television and rummages through the tapes. _1995… 1999… 2009._ They stop there. The last tape is labeled: _GRADUATION_. No date. Mondo pops it in and the screen glows blue. He hits play. Nothing. The tape is empty. Kiyotaka never graduated. 

This can’t be real. Mondo looks around the room and it is, it is so real. This is Kiyotaka’s old room. He opens the closet and there it is, the old uniform, that ugly brown blazer that Mondo hated wearing. He used to violate the dress code and get detention for it and Kiyotaka would be there, too. Not because he was in trouble, no; Kiyotaka was never in trouble. He was there to watch Mondo. He was there smacking dust from the erasers, because he wanted to, not because he had to. He liked staying after school. _My dad’s never home._ Mondo remembers him saying that once, but Mondo was hardly paying attention. He was too busy glaring at the clock and waiting to go home so he could get high or something. He never liked Kiyotaka. He was so fucking annoying and—

“He used to hide from the camera. He would get so embarrassed.” Mondo almost jumps out of his skin. He turns and there is Takaaki, standing in the doorway. “He’s running away in half of those.”

Please, no. 

“I—I have to go,” Mondo sputters. 

“What’s wrong?”

Mondo pushes past him. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“What?”

“I—” He’s looking for his shoes. He’s moving fast and nothing seems to exist except for what’s in front of him. Takaaki squeezes his shoulder, but Mondo flinches away. “I’m half yer age, okay? It’s fuckin’ gross. Yer only screwin’ me ‘cause I remind you of yer dead son. Y’know how fuckin’ creepy that is?” The situation is more nuanced than that, but Mondo needs Takaaki to hate him, so he says, “A cop killed my brother and I know you ain’t no fuckin’ better. You ain’t shit! Yer a pig and yer a fuckin’ pervert, too. No one wonder yer wife divorced yer ass. No wonder Kiyotaka—”

Fuck.

Just as Mondo swings open the front door, Takaaki slams it shut. 

“How do you know my son?” 

“I—I don’t!” He lies through his teeth. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

He gets the door open again. “Fuck off!” 

Then he runs. 

A week goes by. He starts working a new corner of Tokyo. He considers going south, finding some new city and some new johns and some new everything. He never takes the leap. He gets real stingy with his money, saves for a rainy day and tells himself if he’s still doing this at 25, he’ll find himself a nice, big bridge. Another week goes by. He gets robbed in the middle of the day, the middle of the goddamn day, and that’s just karma, isn’t it? Fucking Kiyotaka’s father. That’s just karma. 

It’s getting colder. He’s wearing three pairs of socks and it doesn’t matter. His boots are starting to fall apart and he should have bought new ones when he still had the money. He takes a swig from his water bottle and decides it will be a piss bottle soon. Just in case someone bothers to rob him again. He’s lost in thought when he hears the whoop of a siren. Not a cry, but a singular chirp. Before he turns, he knows it’s for him. With his face down, he begins to walk faster. The patrol car rolls up beside him, matches his speed and follows him down the block. Then the window comes down. 

“Get in.” It’s Takaaki. Of course. 

“No.” He keeps walking. 

“Get in.”

 _“Get in,”_ Mondo mimics. 

“I’m not playing with you,” Takaaki warns. 

Neither is Mondo.

“Fine! Gimme yer badge number!” Mondo barks. “I’m fuckin’ reporting your ass.”

“Really,” Takaaki deadpans. “What for?”

“For fuckin’ a prostitute!” Duh. 

Without missing a beat, Takaaki says, “Then I’m detaining you for solicitation.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Takaaki! I knew it, all you cops are the fuckin’ same!” He swings back his bottle, holds it in his mouth then sprays it at the car, a vengeful mist of water and spit. “Burn in hell, you fuckin’ pig!”

Takaaki puts the car into park and Mondo gets nervous. He spins on his heel and can hear the slam of the car door, not too far behind him. Then a familiar hand on his wrist, bringing him to a stop. 

“Lemme go!” Mondo hollers. He’s scared. Really, really scared. He's scared of cops and he’s scared of Takaaki. Absently, he thinks that he deserves to be shot through the gut. A punishment for everything. 

“You’re not in trouble,” Takaaki says. His voice is calm. Apologetically, he says, “I just want to talk to you. I promise you’re safe.” 

“About Taka?” Mondo trembles. “You just wanna know ‘bout Taka, right?”

“Please.” 

Takaaki releases his wrist. Mondo could run, he really could. Instead, he swings off his backpack and sits on the sidewalk, unminding of the dirt. Takaaki joins him. 

“We were in the same class. I—” He can’t stop shaking. “I was kind of a trouble maker, y’know? I skipped class and got into fights and shit. Taka got on my case a lot. He was, y’know, just really smart and basically fuckin’ perfect. I was jealous and I— I dunno, I—”

Takaaki pulls off his sunglasses. His eyes are intense and Mondo has to look away. He forces himself to continue. 

“After my brother died, I was a fuckin’ mess. I lashed out at everyone. I was gettin’ in trouble all the time and Taka, he— I was never nice to him. He said somethin’ to me, I can’t remember what, and I went fuckin’ ballistic. I told him, I said— Y’know, _‘fuck you, go kill yourself,’_ just this mean fuckin’ shit. I dropped outta school a few days later and just, I didn’t know— I didn’t know, alright? You’re a good man, Takaaki, you were probably a great fuckin’ dad and I just— I—”

When he looks at Takaaki, he expects to see anger. Maybe a fist flying toward him. Maybe a gun. Takaaki, his eyes are sad as usual. Sad and lost and grey. He blinks and then there is an ounce of warmth. 

“Kiyotaka mentioned you.”

“Yeah?” He sniffles. Is he crying?

“Mondo.” It’s strange to hear Takaaki say his name; his real one. This is the first time. With the pad of his thumb, Takaaki wipes a tear away and Mondo forgets to flinch. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I fuckin’ bullied him,” Mondo feverishly shakes his head. He’s talking to the sidewalk. “I—”

“Kiyotaka was depressed. For a long time, I think,” Takaaki speaks to the sky. “ He was a hard worker, his grades were excellent, so I told myself there was nothing wrong. I was always looking for an excuse. Too busy with work or arguing with my wife. I didn’t want to face it. No one wants to accept that their child might be suffering. I hold myself accountable for what happened. I was his father and I should have been there for him.” He looks at Mondo. “If either of us killed Kiyotaka, then it was me.”

***

After some convincing, Mondo gets into the car. Takaaki mumbles some police jargon into his radio then says something about taking his lunch. It’s hardly lunch time. They find a cafe with the lights still on and sit opposite from each other. Takaaki reaches for Mondo beneath the table, he extends his hand and Mondo takes it. 

“I’m so stupid,” Mondo cries into his sleeve. 

“You’re still young,” Takaaki corrects. 

The barista walks into the backroom and distantly, there is the _clang_ and _click_ of dirty dishware. Without the three of them, the cafe would be empty. In the corner is this jukebox, this thing that’s made to look vintage, but probably isn’t. Hiroshi Satoh’s _Say Goodbye_ is playing, this early 80’s song that Takaaki recognizes, but Mondo doesn’t. 

_And say goodbye_

_I'm gone_

_Though you tried to own me_

_I guess there's no harm done_

_Hope you won't be lonely_

“I—I wanna be with you,” Mondo confesses, all spit and snot. 

Takaaki squeezes his hand.

“You’re still young.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Pull me down wife beater cop and with nothing said  
> I unzipped myself and let him give me head  
> And as I laid him there bleeding on the floor  
> He mumbled 'I've never felt this way about another man before.'"


End file.
